The Body Tuner

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In a suburban subterranean cocoon, I’m lying on my side, wrapped up in layers of starched white sheets, thick cotton blankets, a few microwaved packs at my chilly feet and a puffy pillow snuggled between my legs.

Sealed off from the typical sounds of office, waiting area and laundry rooms. The light is low. A compilation of classical tunes quietly embraces me, violins predominating with a mournful yet calming presence.

My body is a piano at rest and she is the tuner.

She sits on a stool towards the bottom of the table. Facing my legs, she closes her eyes and lays her hands, like a piano player (or tuner?) on my shin. She palpates this way and that. Up and down my left leg. She taps on my skin as if calling on the connective tissue to invite her in, or attempting to awaken dormant muscles.

Her movements are choreographed telepathically, perhaps? Which would not be surprising, given her past life as a professional ballerina.

If she hits a sharp note, I cringe before letting out a muted yelp. This helps her fine-tune with reduced pressure, or a slight shift over to a nearby spot. If she hones in on a flat note, with no response from my internal choir, she sighs with obvious glee, cheerful and satisfied that her previous week’s tune-up and maintenance has taken effect.

Sometimes my body produces silence, other times a crescendo of sensations. Her touch continues to caress, to iron out my IT-band wrinkles and to unglue myo-fascial tissue. I am grateful for her artisan’s fingers, easing the song back into (and out of) my body.